SOMArts exhibit in San Francisco. She tells us more about how this experience introduced her to both a new holiday, and to many new neighbors, past and present.

* * *

MARTINA CASTRO: I remember as a child the moment my cousin Lucia told me my parents would die one day. It was Christmas. We must have been five and six years old, and we were playing on the terrace of our grandparents’ farm. I think she got jealous over a gift I had gotten, and thought that was a way to even things out. She said my parents would one day be gone. Forever. And I didn’t totally understand, but I knew enough that I started sobbing uncontrollably.

To this day, I can recall how devastating it felt to imagine losing them, and in a way, I still carry that fear with me.

A few months ago, I had the chance to confront my feelings about death, in a way that an entire culture has dealt with it for countless generations. My good friend, Ytaelena López, a painter, asked me to help her with her Day of the Dead altar. Creating an altar is a chance to remember and celebrate loved ones who have passed away. And I decided this was a good – and safe – way to confront my fears.

Ytaelena’s work is part of SOMArts exhibit in San Francisco. This year the theme for it is “Illuminations.”

Ytaelena and her team took a modern and abstract approach to the altar – they designed a massive teepee made completely of white and clear balloons, and called the installation "To See the Light." I created the exhibit’s soundscape.

Inside the teepee, there's also a bench where you can sit and answer questions.

While our installation is about this kind of personal reflection, plenty of altars around the SOMArts exhibit floor memorialize loved ones in the Day of the Dead’s customary tradition.

As I explored the gallery, I came to appreciate how unique this artform is – you don’t just see photographs of the lost loved ones. You get to see their shoes, and their favorite things to eat, their kitchen table. You get to read their poetry, and smell their favorite flowers.

The altar that most spoke to me was created by a team.

TANIA LILIEUX: My name is Tania Lilieux and my artistic name is La Tania.

ADRIAN ARIAS: Adrian Arias, and our altar name is “El Mar de Julia.”

Which means “Julia’s ocean.” Julia is Tania’s mother who died while rescuing a child from drowning.

LILIEUX: When she drowned I was 13 and nothing ever happened. There was never a memorial for her or anything. This is the first one.

The room is almost all white, but on the ceiling, a projector shows images of the ocean. And on the far wall, there’s a painting of a doorway within a doorway within a doorway, at the center of which is a photograph of Julia dancing flamenco. Tania was inspired by her mother’s passion to pursue dancing as a career, and it’s one of the few ways she connects with her mother’s memory. She hopes this altar will help her and her whole family heal.

LILIEUX: I feel like this was an event that was never shared, and this was the moment to do that. And I think pain is easier to tolerate if you share it.

The person I shared the most with throughout this experience, was actually the artist who built her altar right next to our teepee.

While Tania’s altar to her mother evokes sadness, Brenda Rasmussen’s celebrates the impermanent.

BRENDA RASMUSSEN: My piece is called the web of life, an altar of graceful ephemera.

It’s a massive dreamcatcher surrounded by natural objects.

When I ask her who she will be thinking of on the Day of the Dead, she mentions a woman from her Hepatitis C support group who recently passed away. And then something surreal happens.

RASMUSSEN: What was her name? Thelma... Another earthquake. Oh my God.

Yes, an earthquake. Grasping onto each other’s arms, half laughing and half catching our breath, Brenda takes the words out of my mouth when she says:

RASMUSSEN: I think the spirits are saying, “It’s okay.”

CASTRO: Yeah, I hope so.

Back in our teepee of personal reflection, I meditate on what I learned. It’s beautiful to celebrate the spirits of our ancestors, but losing the people we love can be totally paralyzing. It’s something I have trouble wrapping my heart around. I guess that’s why the Day of the Dead is not simply festive. It’s also morbid and dark. It’s a day to say all of these scary, difficult things out loud, to the world. Together. Yes, my mom and my dad will one day die. Everyone I love will.

I think Tania’s right. Perhaps sharing that makes the pain more bearable. And it reminds you of the special experiences, emotions, and memories we get to share in the brief and wondrous moment that we’re all here.

Commentary: Meditating on loss while celebrating life

El Dia de Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, is a traditional Mexican holiday in which people honor the spirits of those who’ve passed. The holiday is actually celebrated on two days: November 1st is Day of the Innocents, when the souls of children are remembered. And the following day, November 2nd, is the one most widely recognized as Day of the Dead.

It’s not a somber holiday – in fact, it’s a colorful and joyous commemoration because indigenous Mexicans don’t believe souls die. Instead, they say our souls leave our bodies and continue living in a sacred space until they return to visit their relatives.

It’s a tradition commonly celebrated all over California, but over on the East Coast – in Northern Virginia – it’s not common at all. That’s where KALW’s Martina Castro grew up, and Day of the Dead is still pretty new for her.

This year, Castro decided to celebrate it for the first time by contributing to an altar at the SOMArts exhibit in San Francisco. She tells us more about how this experience introduced her to both a new holiday, and to many new neighbors, past and present.

* * *

MARTINA CASTRO: I remember as a child the moment my cousin Lucia told me my parents would die one day. It was Christmas. We must have been five and six years old, and we were playing on the terrace of our grandparents’ farm. I think she got jealous over a gift I had gotten, and thought that was a way to even things out. She said my parents would one day be gone. Forever. And I didn’t totally understand, but I knew enough that I started sobbing uncontrollably.

To this day, I can recall how devastating it felt to imagine losing them, and in a way, I still carry that fear with me.

A few months ago, I had the chance to confront my feelings about death, in a way that an entire culture has dealt with it for countless generations. My good friend, Ytaelena López, a painter, asked me to help her with her Day of the Dead altar. Creating an altar is a chance to remember and celebrate loved ones who have passed away. And I decided this was a good – and safe – way to confront my fears.

Ytaelena’s work is part of SOMArts exhibit in San Francisco. This year the theme for it is “Illuminations.”

Ytaelena and her team took a modern and abstract approach to the altar – they designed a massive teepee made completely of white and clear balloons, and called the installation “To See the Light.” I created the exhibit’s soundscape.

Inside the teepee, there’s also a bench where you can sit and answer questions.

While our installation is about this kind of personal reflection, plenty of altars around the SOMArts exhibit floor memorialize loved ones in the Day of the Dead’s customary tradition.

As I explored the gallery, I came to appreciate how unique this artform is – you don’t just see photographs of the lost loved ones. You get to see their shoes, and their favorite things to eat, their kitchen table. You get to read their poetry, and smell their favorite flowers.

The altar that most spoke to me was created by a team.

TANIA LILIEUX: My name is Tania Lilieux and my artistic name is La Tania.

ADRIAN ARIAS: Adrian Arias, and our altar name is “El Mar de Julia.”

Which means “Julia’s ocean.” Julia is Tania’s mother who died while rescuing a child from drowning.

LILIEUX: When she drowned I was 13 and nothing ever happened. There was never a memorial for her or anything. This is the first one.

The room is almost all white, but on the ceiling, a projector shows images of the ocean. And on the far wall, there’s a painting of a doorway within a doorway within a doorway, at the center of which is a photograph of Julia dancing flamenco. Tania was inspired by her mother’s passion to pursue dancing as a career, and it’s one of the few ways she connects with her mother’s memory. She hopes this altar will help her and her whole family heal.

LILIEUX: I feel like this was an event that was never shared, and this was the moment to do that. And I think pain is easier to tolerate if you share it.

The person I shared the most with throughout this experience, was actually the artist who built her altar right next to our teepee.

While Tania’s altar to her mother evokes sadness, Brenda Rasmussen’s celebrates the impermanent.

BRENDA RASMUSSEN: My piece is called the web of life, an altar of graceful ephemera.

It’s a massive dreamcatcher surrounded by natural objects.

When I ask her who she will be thinking of on the Day of the Dead, she mentions a woman from her Hepatitis C support group who recently passed away. And then something surreal happens.

RASMUSSEN: What was her name? Thelma… Another earthquake. Oh my God.

Yes, an earthquake. Grasping onto each other’s arms, half laughing and half catching our breath, Brenda takes the words out of my mouth when she says:

RASMUSSEN: I think the spirits are saying, “It’s okay.”

CASTRO: Yeah, I hope so.

Back in our teepee of personal reflection, I meditate on what I learned. It’s beautiful to celebrate the spirits of our ancestors, but losing the people we love can be totally paralyzing. It’s something I have trouble wrapping my heart around. I guess that’s why the Day of the Dead is not simply festive. It’s also morbid and dark. It’s a day to say all of these scary, difficult things out loud, to the world. Together. Yes, my mom and my dad will one day die. Everyone I love will.

I think Tania’s right. Perhaps sharing that makes the pain more bearable. And it reminds you of the special experiences, emotions, and memories we get to share in the brief and wondrous moment that we’re all here.